“Excellent dinner, Malakoff, but we really must be making tracks. Early start, you know.” LJ said matter of factly.
“Such a pity you have to leave. The evening is so young, Levenson-Jones. But, I must say it’s been interesting. And quite an experience.”
“Yes, it has. Hasn’t it? LJ said, looking over the top of his round, gold wire framed spectacles.
“Oh, by the way, Malakoff.” Dillon’s hand dived into his jacket pocket and came out a second later clutching the tracking bug that he’d found on the power cruiser, and gave it to the Frenchman. “I think this belongs to you.”
He then pulled out the other one that Vince had found on Rob Chapman’s boat, the Wave Dancer. He held it in his open palm.
“Did your mother never tell you, that it’s very rude to spy on other people, Malakoff?” Dillon handed him the small device, and then walked off down the stairs.
Malakoff stood and watched him leave. The only sound that he made was a sort of snorting sound that came down his nose.
“Next time you speak to Lord Asquith, Malakoff. Say hello for me.” LJ said, as he buttoned up his jacket.
“What an informed fellow you are, Levenson-Jones. And yes, I will give Oliver your very best wishes. Goodnight, gentlemen.” Malakoff then turned and walked back into the dining room, where he engaged in conversation with Francois Cocteau, the head waiter.
Dillon and the others reached the Range Rover, and the Porsche Carerra, that Kurt had been driving was still parked next to the 4x4.
“What a lovely looking beast.” Vince commented with enthusiasm, and pointing at the sports car, added. “Can’t you just smell the money?”
“Okay, if you like the hard ride.” Dillon said laconically, and then added. “I think that we should drop by Albert Bishop’s place tonight, on the way back to Bonne Nuit. I know it’s getting late, and Roberts has arranged for us to meet him tomorrow morning. But, I’ve got a few burning questions I’d like to ask him.” Dillon said.
“Good idea, Jake. No time like the present.” LJ commented. A moment later, Vince was pulling out of the car park.
They drove out of St. Helier and headed west along Victoria Avenue, which sweeps around the edge of St. Aubin’s Bay. It was magnificent; the tide was at a high, and bathed in the light of the full moon. Vince took the Range Rover inland along the narrow lanes, and five minutes later they pulled up outside of Albert Bishop’s picturesque stone cottage. Dillon and LJ, got out, and walked up to the front door. The cottage looked peaceful in the moonlight, the only intrusion to this tranquil scene, was the sound of the countryside settling down for the evening. LJ rapped the polished brass knocker hard against the door plate, and then stepped back away from the entrance, and looked up at the windows to see if any of the lights were on.
Dillon walked around to the rear of the property, and peered through the French doors. Everything looked neat and tidy, which gave him a bad feeling in the pit of his gut. Nothing should be this perfect, he thought, and immediately walked back to join LJ.
“There doesn’t appear to be anyone in, old son.” LJ said.
“Something’s not right here.” Dillon said, as he approached the front door, squatted down, and using the torch he’d taken from the glove box of the car, peered through the letterbox.
“What do you mean, not right? Bishop’s obviously gone out for the evening, and simply not returned yet.”
“No, I mean there’s something not right. Here, take a look.” Dillon gestured for his boss to look through the letterbox.
“Great Scott!” LJ exclaimed, and immediately stood up again.
From the Range Rover, Vince and Chapman watched on with growing curiosity, as Dillon and then LJ squatted down and peered through the open letterbox. After a moment, they got out and walked across the lane to join the others.
“What’s the matter, boss?” Vince asked LJ.
It was Dillon who answered, “Albert Bishop is dead. From what we can see from here, it looks like he fell down the stairs. More than likely broke his neck on the way down.”
“The poor old bastard.” Chapman said. “He must have missed the top tread in the dark, and down he went.”
“It’s all too convenient, if you ask me.” Dillon commented.
“I agree. All to convenient. One minute he’s talking like a songbird to young Roberts. Telling him all about Lord Asquith, senior. And the next thing, he’s dead.” LJ stated.
“That’s exactly what I mean.” Dillon nodded.
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Vince put in. “I mean, if Malakoff knew about the old boy’s existence, why leave it until now? I’d have thought he’d have had him taken care of long before now.”
LJ nodded. “But what if he’s only just been informed of the old chap’s existence. By the same person who has also been feeding him all of the other information he needed.”
“You mean, the present Lord Asquith?” Chapman asked.
“The very one, and it demonstrates to me, that you can’t trust anyone these days.” LJ said as he walked off down the path. “Now let’s get out of here. We’ll call the police on the way back to Bonne Nuit from a call box.”
They all got back into the Range Rover. Vince drove away from the stone cottage, taking them north through the narrow country lanes. At the first bright yellow telephone box they came across. Dillon jumped out of the 4x4, and called the police. He kept it brief and anonymous, and told them that he’d heard what sounded like gunfire coming from Albert Bishop’s cottage.
“Okay?” LJ asked, as Dillon got back into the passenger seat of the Range Rover.
“Yeah, the old boy’s place should be crawling with police in about ten minutes, I’d say.”
“Good,” LJ said. “At least the old chap will be properly looked after. Dreadful way to end a long life, dreadful.”
“Oh, and I also gave them an exact description of Malakoff’s henchman, Kurt. I said that I’d seen him running away from the house with blood down his shirt.”
“Inspiring, old son.” LJ said with a sparkle in his eye.
“I don’t think Malakoff will be giving us much trouble once he discovers that the police are looking for his man. In fact, I’d say that we’ve bought ourselves more time before he wants us out of the way.” Dillon said looking over his shoulder at the others sitting in the back.
Five minutes later, Vince brought the Range Rover to a halt outside of Chapman’s renovated sea castle, and dropped him off. Back at the Fisherman’s Lodge, LJ retired to his bedroom leaving Dillon and Vince in the living room. Dillon poured them both a generous measure of single malt whisky, raised his glass and proposed a toast.
“To Hugo Malakoff and his little band of thugs. Here’s hoping that they’ll regret — to their dying day, if they ever live that long — sticking their noses into our business.” Both men smiled sardonically, and then downed their drinks in one gulp.
LJ was savouring his second cup of strong black coffee of the morning, as Dillon and Vince walked out through to the garden.
It was a magnificent day, the sun was up, and there were no clouds in the sky. Across the bay, herring gulls swooped down on the fishing boats at anchor, scavenging for scraps. And as far as the eye could see brilliant blue sky seamlessly merged with deep blue of the sea.
After breakfast, Dillon and the others walked down to the harbour to meet Chapman who was already waiting for them on board his boat the Wave Dancer.
“Thought you weren’t coming. Overslept did we?” Chapman said sarcastically.
Dillon ignored the comment, and said, “Well, if we’re all ready, we’d better get this tub out there. We’ve got a lot of coastline to cover, and I’ve got to be back here by mid afternoon to collect Annabelle from the airport.”